


Eye of Newt, Tongue of Frog, Blood of Angel

by orphan_account



Series: Lucifer [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is having a bad couple of days.  He has something Lucifer wants and Lucifer’s not too fussy about how he gets it.  Sam and Dean are there to help but for reasons known only to him and Lucifer, Castiel has to do the final showdown alone.  Dean’s more concerned than Cas expects. Mild slash (i.e. kissing).</p><p>Set sometime in Season 5. The only timestamp is really that Lucifer knows who Castiel is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of Newt, Tongue of Frog, Blood of Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF and Livejournal mid-2012. Posting here for completeness.

Castiel’s lying on his back, recently conscious; sore from the cut on his arm; weak and dizzy from blood loss; feverish from the infection marching round his veins, threatening worse. And the most frustrating thing is he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. He’s tried. Twice.

He wasn’t even supposed to have been at the hunt, not that that’s anything unusual. Most of the times Castiel helps out on a case it’s not pre-arranged. 

Dean had called when he’d found some sigils. When Castiel got there, they were only the equivalent of graffiti proclaiming a little known angel had been there. Sam had already worked that out, was miffed in a good-natured way that Dean had called Castiel and Sam had teased Dean lightly about needing an excuse to call him. Dean had thrown out a breezy “whatever” that had encompassed both his brother and the angel. Everyone had been in a rare good mood. A normal hunt, friendly banter, comrades-in-arms. Castiel had stayed to help as he was there anyway.

But it hadn’t been a normal hunt and their cocky, assured attitude going in had been misplaced. All the signs had indicated nothing special. A couple of demons, just hanging around having fun at human expense. When they’d broken into the house, they’d been immediately set upon by a much larger horde of nearly a dozen black-eyed opponents, fighting mostly just out of arms reach, dashing in at them every few minutes with long slashing thrusts, before dipping back out of reach again. Not your normal demon fighting strategy.

Castiel had been separated from Dean and Sam during the fight, and even though Castiel was fast, the demons were everywhere and as he can’t exorcise demons any longer, not even one let alone the 7 or 8 that surrounded him, he’d used his blade to try and thrust and kill, but the demons kept frustratingly out of harm and Castiel had only successfully dispatched 2 at the point it started getting even stranger.

He’d kept an eye on Dean and Sam, of course, ready to fly to their side if needed, but they’d been holding their own and so he’d turned back to concentrate his effort on his own fight where the demons were gradually pushing him backward a slow step at a time. Castiel had felt herded, as if they were less intent on killing him and more intent on forcing him into the corner of the room.

There were sigils on the walls of the corner of the room, and he hadn’t spotted them until it was too late. They’d bound him and trapped him in a tiny space, the ones that said his name, and the ones that diminished and weakened him, stripping him of the remainder of his already compromised powers. 

The demons had stepped back, taking stock of their trapped angel, pausing for breath as soon as Castiel could no longer move to thrust his sword outside of the space he was constrained in. Dean had shouted his name and run towards him, but had been stopped after only a couple of steps by an attacking demon, all the while yelling Cas’ name, and threatening serious damage to the demons that circled him. 

Castiel had grunted in surprise at the unexpected pain when the demon’s knife sliced easily through layers of clothing to skin and red blood and white glowing grace had leaked in a surprising combination from his arm. No demon knife should have been able to touch his grace. The grace filtered out slowly into the air for a few seconds, then thankfully stopped but the blood free-flowed to land on some plastic sheeting that covered the floor that Castiel hadn’t noticed until he’d heard the strange ‘patter’ noise his blood made when it fell into it.

Dean and Sam had suddenly appeared, having forced their way through the demons that had held back to stop them, they’d attacked the ring of demons around Castiel from behind, drawing them away from Castiel but he’d still been bound and trapped by the sigils and unable to help.

He’d watched impotently, shouting warnings as demons had tried to outflank the brothers, feeling the blood drip from his body too quickly for comfort, he’d started to sway and he’d sunk to one knee unable to support himself any longer. 

Dean had fought even harder then trying to reach him, shouting through the fight for Castiel to put pressure on his arm, to stop the bleeding and Castiel had sluggishly obeyed, the intricacies of human body maintenance still escaping him, not quite coping yet with the fact that he can’t heal everything immediately and automatically.

While Sam and Dean had fought, one demon had snuck back to Castiel. Castiel had heard Sam shout a warning and he’d looked up. The demon had sneered at Castiel crouched on the floor, kneeling in a pool of his own blood, gripping his injured arm through his torn clothing, and had reached in and collected the blood soaked plastic sheeting carefully and, tying it into an angel-blood filled bubble, had released a yell of triumph into the room. 

Castiel had decided very quickly that the purposeful collection of an angel’s blood by a demon couldn’t be a good thing, even if he didn’t understand why. While the demon was still leaning into Castiel’s confined corner with his trophy bag of angel blood, Castiel had summoned all his remaining physical energy and with his blade in his injured arm had thrust upwards bursting the make-do plastic sack and emptying its contents all over the wooden floor to drip between the floorboards. 

The demon with Castiel had hissed and looked murderous. The demon had curled and uncurled his fist round his knife, one eye on Castiel’s blade and obviously thinking how easy it would be to wrest it from him, to stick it through Castiel’s heart, to bleed Castiel’s human and angelic selves, to kill. But he didn’t. Instead he’d spat out words forced through a clenched jaw “next time, angel!” and yelled to his companions. The fight had ended abruptly, the room emptying of demons, Dean and Sam standing, still in fight mode but with nothing left to fight.

Castiel had been grabbed by four strong hands and dragged from the corner protected by the sigils; He’d felt so much relief at having the binding weight removed like chains falling away, that in his relief, without thinking, he’d taken that leap into flight.

Now he’s lying on his back in exactly the same spot where he slumped into consciousness, putting off the moment he needs to move. And he does need to move because he’s not really sure how long he’s been there and not staying in one place too long is the only thing that keeps him alive and out of his enemies hands. 

Wiping a film of feverish sweat off his face with his coat sleeve he rolls up his sleeves to look at the knife wound, twisting his arm slightly till the pain makes him stop. He can’t see where it cut his grace now but he still can’t heal it. He mentally shrugs. He’ll see how it goes. There seems to be a lot of that going on these days.

It’s highly likely that Dean isn’t going to be pleased with him. In fact he’ll be yelling and sulking and sharing his opinions with anyone that will listen (Sam, because he won’t have a choice) about how Castiel is a selfish son-of-a-bitch for running out on them. Since Dean came back from the possible future that Zachariah showed him, he’s been edgier, keeping his family closer, and Castiel seems to have been suddenly included. 

He rummages in his trench coat pocket for his cell phone and looks at the screen. 10 missed calls. Sighing, he retrieves his messages, the first sent only minutes after the hunt.

Dean: “Cas? Are you okay? Where are you?”

Dean: “Cas, seriously, call me.”

Dean: “Cas, this isn’t funny. I’m…fuck! I’m worried…um, we’re worried. Sam and me… okay. Call me.”

Dean: “Fuck!”

Sam: “Cas, are you okay? Call us as soon as you get this…Dean’s going a little weird here, man.”

Dean: “Cas, we’ve gotta move on. We’ll be travelling. Call me as soon as you can. It’d be good to know you’re okay, dude.”

The rest of the missed calls, all from Dean, had no message. 

Castiel eases himself up slowly and propping his back against a tree he speed-dials Dean’s number. He doesn’t even hear the phone ring at his end before Dean answers. The volume of Dean’s voice rises and falls for the first few seconds and Castiel envisages him juggling the phone into a position where he can speak while driving.

“Cas?” Dean sounds suspicious, tentative, hopeful.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Thank fuck, Cas! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why didn’t you answer your freakin’ phone? I’ve been worried. Sam’s been worried. Bobby’s had hunters all over looking out for a dead angel!” 

“I’m fine now” Castiel clarifies.

“Oh.” Dean pauses and Castiel’s fairly sure he hears him gulp a breath before he continues. “Well how about you get your feathery ass over here ‘cause that was some freaking weird stuff going on in that hunt. We’re in the car. On the interstate about 200 miles north.”

“I’ll see you shortly.” Castiel hangs up. Looking down at himself he wonders what, if anything, he can fix. He manages to clean the blood from his clothes, but that’s all. Dry cleaning is easy on the grace. At least now he’s not visibly injured.

When he’s satisfied that his outward appearance more closely matches ‘I’m fine’ he composes himself; takes some deep breaths, pushes the feverish, dizzy sensations and the throbbing of his arm as far under the surface as he can manage, wipes the new sweat from his face and his neck, gathers his strength and flies.

-xxx-

It takes him half an hour to get there, with the frequent stops to get his breath and strength back. There’s no way he should have to do that and hopes it’s just a case of giving his grace time to replenish itself. As no angel has ever before been in the position he’s in, he doesn’t know what to expect; what’s normal and what isn’t.

The Impala swerves slightly towards the center lane as Dean jumps at Castiel’s arrival in the back seat. Castiel’s relieved to be sitting down, but even then feels pained and dizzy. It’s a few seconds before he can speak. “Hello, Dean.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean sounds annoyed, and Castiel bites down on the instinct to apologize. 

“I was unwell.”

“It’s been hours, dude. Next time you’re … unwell, or whatever, just stay put.” Castiel’s eyes come up to meet Dean’s in the driving mirror, still finding himself thrown by the way Dean switches so quickly between yelling and not yelling. What he sees in the face in the mirror is worry and concern not for Castiel, Angel of the Lord, defender of Dean and Sam from all things demonic and angelic, but for Cas, friend and family, and he’s a little bit thrown, as he hasn’t seen it quite so raw in relation to him before. 

Not quite knowing what to do with that, but knowing that he can’t afford the weakness of allowing himself to think that Dean actually cares about him, Castiel reverts to a reaction he’s more comfortable with; platitudes. “Okay. I will.” Castiel’s worked out it’s much easier just to agree with Dean sometimes and go through the consequences of doing exactly the opposite, if necessary, later.

After a pause, where Dean briefly focuses on the road in front of him, Dean’s eyes are back watching him through the mirror. “Cas? Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good.” Sam turns round in his seat to look Castiel over. 

“I’m fine.” When Castiel sees the disbelieving frown Dean’s reflection gives him he struggles for something else to say, gives in and tries to surreptitiously wipe away the new coating of sweat off his brow. He’s obviously unsuccessful at hiding the action and Dean’s frown deepens.

“You do look pretty pale, Castiel” Sam’s peering at him through his young eyes, managing to look innocent when there’s no way he can be, and Castiel shifts his gaze reluctantly from Dean’s reflection to Sam as Sam continues. “There was a lot of blood back there.” Sam cocks an eyebrow, inviting Castiel to elaborate, but Castiel asks instead “How did you hear about the hunt last night?”

Sam shrugs “usual stuff. Omens; signs; deaths.”

“Do you think you were directed there? In any way at all?” Castiel shuffles along the seat into the corner to better sit steady against the swaying car, a movement that again doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean. Castiel wants to tell him to watch the road or stop the car, not convinced by car travel as an efficient, comfortable or safe way of getting around at the best of times. Castiel’s fairly sure though that any attempt to comment on Dean’s driving while he’s constantly trying to look behind him at Castiel isn’t going to make the atmosphere in the car any less tense than it is.

“I didn’t think so, but…” Sam looks across at Dean for confirmation to go on. Dean doesn’t nod or shake his head so Sam continues, “one of those sigils was your name, wasn’t it?”

Castiel nods so Sam carries on, encouraged “that means it was a trap that would only have worked for you. Which means we were intended to lure you there. Which means we had to be lured there in the first place. But we can’t think of anything that intentionally drew us there.”

“Your movements are predictable.” Castiel glances at the passing countryside through the side window but it makes him feel sick so he turns back to face Sam, noticing the slightly hurt look he’s giving him. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. They put themselves in your path and provided enough activity to attract you. The sigils outside the building were pointless but intended to give you a reason to call me.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder at them both. “That just means we’ll have to be unpredictable for a while, because they didn’t get what they wanted.”

“Agreed” Castiel nods, remembering the look of fury on the demon’s face as Castiel had poured away their hard-won prize, and the pain in his arm comes out of the little corner he’d tried to tuck it into as if in sympathy with the memory, making him breathe a little deeper and sharper than normal, and both Dean and Sam notice this time that something’s a little off with him. Sam at least is willing not to probe and cuts in before Dean has a chance to.

“What do they want with your blood anyway, Cas? I can’t find any lore about angel blood being used for anything. Nor can Bobby.”

“I don’t know of anything.” Castiel shifts uncomfortably in the seat; his skin seems sensitive to everything and he’s sweating again, and it’s just starting to dawn on him that he might be in some real trouble here. “Where are we going?” 

“We’re just following up something Bobby found. A lack of demon activity of all things, with an obvious epicenter. We’ve got nothing else to go on.”

Castiel nods, absently. He should really look at what they’ve got. Check it out. See if it’s likely or not. Maybe in a minute he tells himself.

Dean angles the mirror so he can better see Castiel propped in his corner and the frown is back. “Cas, you should stay with us for a while. They’ll try something else. You heard what that demon said about next time.” 

“Staying with you won’t help, Dean.” He absentmindedly stretches his arm and rubs at the cut. It feels hot and itches. Damned demons and their poor hygiene.

“It’ll help me if I know where your feathery butt is.” Dean taps on the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with your arm? Hasn’t it healed?”

Castiel doesn’t answer but takes his hand from his arm, placing both hands in his lap “text me your location when you stop. I’ll meet you there.” He gathers himself up and flies, getting a glimpse of Dean’s indignant features as he disappears from the car.

-xxx-

Castiel doesn’t fly far mainly because he can’t. But he needs somewhere more comfortable than the car, which was becoming stifling with both his increasing fever and with Dean’s attention. There’s a lake nearby and he stops there. It’s pristine and clear and cool and he hopes its calm, gentle cold will give him the peace he needs to make him feel well again; he likes water, it relaxes him and recharges him. 

Landing by its shore, he stumbles, his feet unsteady, his head dizzy, even the short flight weakening him and he puts his arm out to steady himself on a nearby pine, flinching at the unexpected pain, worse than it had been earlier. He ends up in an ungainly heap on the damp, mossy ground, breathing heavily. Although he’s hot, the sweat from his fever chills on his brow and it’s a relief against the flushed heat of his face.

Carefully, he shrugs off his coat and jacket, to feel cooler. Putting his head on one knee and focusing blindly at a point somewhere near his left heel, he tries to regulate his body’s temperature, concentrating so hard he almost faints and it makes absolutely no difference whatsoever. Raising his head slowly, he notices fresh blood on the arm of his shirt and decides he hates his human form right now. And demons. And, while he’s at it, angels. He’s feeling generous. 

Resigned to what he’ll find, Castiel rolls up his shirt sleeve and stares at his arm. The cut’s bleeding slightly, but more worryingly, with the blood are mingled wisps of light ; the forearm’s swollen, the skin bright red. He tries again to heal the wound.

Predictably, because it’s one of those days, when he tries, nothing happens. 

Castiel frowns and concentrates again. All it does is make him dizzy. He focuses on knitting the skin and muscle and tissue together. It should be easy. He keeps concentrating, frustrated at how hard it is, determined to fix this one small thing, ignoring the small balls of light that flash in front of his eyes and the pendulum his body has become, till it’s too late and he feels himself falling and amass of green comes up to meet him.

-xxx-

Gradually, sluggishly, shivering with the intensity of his fever, he comes back to his senses. It’s dark; night; there’s a nearly full moon and a few stars in a cloudy sky, casting grey shadows in the trees and boulders that border the now black water of the lake. The fact that it’s dark means he’s been unconscious for hours and he struggles to understand how that can possibly be...his mind trails away in a random loss of focus and he shakes his head a little, clawing his way back to the present.

Castiel raises himself upright, his heart beating fast, his blood pressure low, and he hangs his head with the effort of breathing. He needs help and he knows he has to find Dean because he’s got no-one else. Dean’s going to be annoyed again given the time he’s been gone. 

He remembers he took off his coat and jacket, but he can’t remember where he put them down and he needs to find them because his phone is in the coat pocket. He groans angrily, looking around him. 

“You looking for these?” the voice from the dark startles him and he begins to stand only to fall back down as his legs don’t find the strength to support him.

Peering into the darkness, he sees the shape of a man walk into his view, holding out his coat and jacket in one hand, with his phone in the other. He can’t see the features but he knows who it is; there’s a certain something that follows the devil around.

“Brother, have you fallen so far? Look at how pathetic you are now. More and more human every day.” 

“What do you want, Lucifer?” Castiel bristles with defiance, growling his question with a strength he doesn’t feel.

“You know what I want, Castiel. Many things. Destruction; chaos; Sam; you to join me. Will you join me?” 

“No.”

Lucifer shrugs, the tiniest smile pulling at his mouth as he stares down at Castiel. “Right now I’ll settle for a drop of your blood. Well, maybe a liter or so, just to be sure, as my demons were so careless with the last lot. If you want a job done well, do it yourself.”

“My blood is of no use to you.”

“Oh, but you’re so wrong.”

Castiel forces himself up to one knee, gasping as he puts his good hand on the ground briefly to steady himself “What have you done to me?” 

Lucifer smiles wider, peering closer “Do you like my new toy? Not quite perfected yet I’m sure you’ll agree, but you got to try out the prototype. You should be feeling honored.” Lucifer comes closer and drops to one knee to look Castiel in the eye, his hand suddenly darting out, grabbing Castiel’s wrist, pulling his arm towards him and peering at the wound on his arm, twisting it in his hand, making Castiel flinch involuntarily, before looking up again at Castiel’s face. Castiel’s relieved to see the wound isn’t currently leaking anything human or angelic. Lucifer trails his hand over Castiel’s forehead, pulling it away to stare curiously at the sweat he’s collected in his palm. “I have to admit, you don’t look like you feel particularly honored.”

He laughs in Castiel’s face, a small cruel laugh, as he stands back up, staying close. “Don’t worry. If you survive you’ll have bigger things to worry about soon. Now about that blood donation…”

“What could you possibly want with it?”

“Oh, only raising the biggest, nastiest, strongest, evilest demons from the very bowels of Hell. All I have to do is open a door and persuade them through, give them a taste of what’s on this side. Human blood wouldn’t really cut it, don’t you think? An angel’s blood? Now that would be so much more enticing.” 

Lucifer seems happy to talk and Castiel’s more than happy to let him. He’s trying to buy himself time to get up the strength to fly, which he’s been trying to do since Lucifer arrived. He just needs a little longer.

“I don’t understand.” Which is true, he doesn’t. “Why do they need persuading. You can let anyone out you want now.”

Lucifer looks a little irritated. A tiny change in his features, hardly noticeable. “They don’t want to come out, Castiel. That’s the problem. They’re quite happy in their little sub-kingdoms torturing and ruling.”

“You think an angel’s blood will be a strong enough incentive? I doubt it will work.” 

“Well, now,” Lucifer purrs quietly, circling behind Castiel as he speaks. Castiel forces himself to stay looking forward, but can’t prevent the small hairs on the back of his neck from standing on end. “You don’t know it won’t work. No-one’s done it before. No-one’s had an angel, grace intact, that’s so easy to catch before. It’ll be interesting to try, won’t it?” The last words are whispered mere inches from his ear. He can smell the stench of Satan’s breath; an old, moldy smell of things long dead.

Castiel could tell him that thanks to Lucifer’s new ‘toy’, the grace part is a fairly insignificant component right now, but Lucifer didn’t see the grace leaving through the knife wound and Castiel doesn’t want to make him think the knife is more effective than it seems, so he keeps quiet.

Lucifer walks into his field of view again, standing upright, drawing further away. “Of course, we’ll give it all the help we can.” He looks up at the moon before staring back down at Castiel, serious and intense. “Tomorrow night, there’ll be a full moon. Tomorrow night no less than 6 meaningful ‘satanic’…” and Lucifer actually uses air quotes, which would have been funny at any other time “…events will converge in a little known graveyard by a little known town. Toss into that an already powerful ritual with a drizzle of angel blood and I think we might have ourselves a winner.” 

Lucifer waves a casual hand. Castiel twists his head too quickly to watch the horde of demons come out from the trees behind where he’s crouched and he falls back on the ground as his head spins. Now would be a good time to be able to fly away, but he can’t. Not even close. The laughter of the demons rings in his ears as they watch him flounder helpless. 

Through it all he hears the buzz of his cell phone. Dean’s ringtone.

Lucifer smiles his small cruel smile and answers the phone, cutting off the demon laughter with a small signal from his hand. “Dean? How nice of you to call…of course he’s here…of course he’s still alive. What sort of beast do you take me for…well, that’s not very polite…oh, you want him back? Alive? That’s sweet. Let me put you on speaker.” Lucifer taps something on the phone’s screen and places the phone on a small boulder near Castiel but out of his reach.

Castiel hears Dean’s voice clearly through the clear, now quiet air. “Lucifer, you bastard. If you’ve hurt him…Cas? Cas, you there? Are you okay?”

“Dean…” Castiel lurches forward towards the phone, gasping for the air to speak “you must ...”

Lucifer sneers, flicks a wrist and Castiel is sent sprawling violently, spread-eagled on to his back, silencing him in a sudden exhaled breath. 

Four of the crowd of demons come forward and grab Castiel pulling him up, holding onto his arms, torso and hair to keep him standing. The jeering and laughter from the other demons starts up again. Castiel can hear Dean yelling down the phone in rising panic until Castiel’s own scream cuts out the sound as a demon behind him, with slow deliberate movements, forces a long, narrow blade through Castiel, from a rib on his back, deliberately breaking the bone, to just above his hip, twisting and jerking the blade as he pushes it through Castiel.

Castiel tries to pull away, but the demon with the blade merely pushes harder, while the others pull him back into the weapon. He’s bitten his tongue, choking off his scream, and he coughs, spraying bright red spots onto the bright green mossy ground, as the metallic taste of blood enters his throat and fills his mouth. His knees had barely been holding him upright anyway but now they give way altogether and he’s a limp weight held up by his captors.

As the blood starts to stream down the blade sticking obscenely out of Castiel’s abdomen, Lucifer walks forward and begins collecting it. Castiel’s barely conscious, but enough to twist himself away to allow the blood to fall, wasted, to the ground. Lucifer growls in low, controlled anger and gives a small twist of his wrist in the air. The blade twists in Castiel’s body in response and Castiel bites back the scream that claws at his throat to escape and instead raises his head; glaring with hatred he spits blood into Lucifer’s face.

Lucifer looms large in his vision, close; his voice hissing but still in control “Lucky for you, today I may have more use for you alive.” 

Castiel’s only vaguely aware of Lucifer moving back in again to collect his blood. He’s only vaguely aware of anything.

Dean’s frantic voice on the phone, the jeering and anger of the demons and the sound of his own gasping breaths and muted moans are the last thing he hears as the heel of Lucifer’s hand slams against his forehead accompanied by pain like a lightning bolt searing through his brain.

-xxx-

“Cas?”

His mind is filled with fog and pain and a smell of moss and somewhere that sounds both distant and close at the same time, someone is saying his name. He thinks he should answer, or at least open his eyes; but he doesn’t. It’s too hard.

“Crap, what’d they do? Is he…”

He feels cool, calloused fingers on his wrist and he tries to move his hand away but nothing seems to happen and he doesn’t have the energy to care.

“He’s alive. Sam, give me a hand.” Castiel feels an arm wrap round his shoulders and one under his knees and is grateful when he feels himself slipping all the way back into unconsciousness before the pain has the chance to really hit him.

-xxx-

The quiet background noises of someone moving around trying to be quiet reach him first before his brain catches up and tries to make sense of them. When the hurt comes instantly afterwards, he can’t help a small unwelcome and unwanted groan rasp past a too dry throat.

“Cas?” A hand, cool against the heat of his bare skin, grips his shoulder pushing him gently back down as he instinctively tries to raise himself off the bed he’s lying on. “Cas, keep still. You’re just hurting yourself. It’s me. You’re safe. They’re gone. Lucifer’s gone.” A gentle hand settles in his hair at odds with the strain in Dean’s voice as he keeps talking to him.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Cas. You had us worried. Can you open your eyes? Stop shaking, dude. You’re scaring me.”

Castiel isn’t successful at stopping the shaking, feeling tremors still as his muscles betray him, but he opens his eyes, with effort. The light beyond is dim, but daylight dimmed with curtains, not still night. Dean’s face swims into his vision, intense and worried. 

“Sam?” Castiel looks around, not seeing the younger Winchester, automatically worried with Lucifer so close.

“He’s gone for supplies. He’ll be back soon.” 

Castiel nods and speaks between short fast breaths “Lucifer found me before. He can do so again. Others might find me too. We must protect ourselves.”

“Ward?” Dean asks.

Castiel makes pen signs with a weak wave of his good arm. It’s easier than talking and Dean gets it just as easily, handing him a pen and a little motel notepad from his duffel bag from a different motel as the one they’re in doesn’t run to such luxuries.

Dean is watching as Castiel shakily draws the sigil then hands him the paper.

“Blood?” 

Castiel nods.

“On the door?” 

It actually doesn’t matter as long as it’s in the room but on the door is no worse than anywhere else so Castiel nods.

He watches while Dean draws the knife over his palm and concentrates on getting the sigil right and when it’s there he feels a little safer. He prays for Sam’s speedy return and closes his eyes. 

He feels so tired. His heart is beating too fast and his breathing keeps pace and he knows that’s because he’s now lost so much blood that the strain on his body is immense. Although he’s lost grace through the wound on his arm, the loss of grace in itself isn’t life-threatening. The problem is that it means he can’t fix the things that are.

He starts to drift and Dean’s hand is back on his shoulder, shaking lightly “Cas? Stay awake. What’re you saying? I can’t understand you.”

He realizes he’s mumbling, but he doesn’t know what any more than Dean does so he stops, forcing his eyes open again. 

“Dean? Are you okay?” Dean looks tense, panicky and frightened, but snorts a laugh. 

“Seriously, you’re asking me?” Dean pauses under Castiel’s intense gaze, obviously deciding whether to say anything further, huffing a sigh and almost forcing out an explanation, before merely shaking his head “just don’t fucking die.”

“Sorry.” Castiel’s not sure what he’s apologizing for and Dean looks as if he isn’t either. Castiel gives up. Thinking’s too hard. His eyes want to close again, his eyelids heavy, but he forces them to stay open. They’ll need to leave soon and he’d rather do it conscious.

“My arm.” He looks up, catching Dean’s gaze. “I can’t fix it. You have to stitch it. It’s been bleeding grace.”

A flash of annoyance passes over Dean’s features before he responds “oh, you mean this arm here? The injury you got in the hunt that you didn’t bother telling us hadn’t healed? That one?”

Castiel nods. He hasn’t the energy for this.

Dean’s tone softens a little when Castiel doesn’t rise to the bait “Yeah, well. It’s already stitched. We did it while you were out.”

“Oh?” and now that he knows he can feel the skin pulled tighter around the wound and he hopes that’ll fix it. “Thank you.” 

“It’s infected. Sam’s getting antibiotics.” 

Castiel nods. He’s not sure if there’s a cure for demon infections.

“We can’t do much with the one in your side. If you can’t fix it, it’ll need surgery.” 

Castiel nods. He understands. He can’t fix it. It will have to wait.

Dean’s hands disappear from his shoulder, and Castiel opens his eyes, biting his lip just in time to stop the cry of loss escaping. But Dean must have sensed something as he’s back immediately, laying a hand on his chest. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna give you some water, okay?” 

Castiel nods and Dean’s hand snakes round the back of his neck, fingers spreading on his back, lifting him slightly off the pillow. The water is a revelation, wet and clear and cold on his tongue and throat and he laps it in, letting it wash away the blood and stale air that’s settled there. He sighs in pleasure as his mouth rehydrates.

“How did you find me?”

Dean’s eyes narrow in remembered rage “Lucifer told us where you were and to come and get you. Like we were picking up some damn parcel.”

“Where are we now?” Swiveling his head on the pillow he looks around the dingy motel room that tells him nothing. It could be any dingy motel room in any town in any state and the ability he has to sense time and space is currently defective.

“Only a couple of miles away. We were a long way away. Took us a few hours to get back. Cas, you weren’t – correct that, you aren’t – in any condition to travel.” Dean had that tone that sounds like he’s stating an irrefutable law of physics.

“We must move on. We have to find Lucifer.” Castiel moves to try to sit up on the bed and that doesn’t help him disprove Dean’s irrefutable law of physics. He’s curling on the mattress with Dean’s voice ringing in the background telling him in no uncertain terms that he’s a dumb stubborn son-of-a-bitch and Dean’s hands holding him steady while the pain dies down enough that he tries again to sit up. 

“Don’t be a frigging hero, Cas. You can’t go anywhere.”

“We must. I don’t think we have much time.” Castiel struggles to force the words through gritted teeth and he senses Dean tense, preparing for an argument he doesn’t have the energy for, and they don’t have the time for.

The sound of the key in the lock signals Sam’s return and thankfully Castiel thinks he can find an ally. 

Castiel watches as Sam places some of his purchases on the table, bringing others, bandages, antibiotics and disinfectant to his bedside.

“Cas! I’m glad you’re awake, man. How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Even Castiel realizes how ridiculous that sounds now that it’s out of his mouth but he pushes on anyway. “Now we have to leave and your brother’s making it difficult. Lucifer’s going to open a gate into hell and try to release some of the strongest demons he can muster. This won’t be a good thing. We have to go now.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“I thought you already knew that.”

“We’re following our noses and guesswork here, Cas. We’ve got diddly-squat that’s definite.”

“Show me” he grimaces as he shuffles on the bed, Sam grabbing an arm to help him lean up against the wall, Dean looking on, not helping, mouth a thin line of disapproval.

Sam pulls out a map, and sits beside Castiel on the bed, spreading the map over the blankets covering Castiel’s legs, overlaying the omens. He points to a spot about 500 miles away from where they are. A perfect circle of omen-less calm reigns for approximately an 8 mile radius around the spot, a graveyard. Not a single omen marked.

Castiel looks at the map. It might be the right spot. It might not. “It sounds vague. We should keep looking for any other indicators while we travel.” Castiel pauses, takes a breath as a wave of nausea briefly sweeps over him, which Dean of course, notices; a fact that Castiel chooses to ignore. “It’s a long way. We should get going.”

Sam looks from Dean to Castiel and back. Dean’s face is a stubborn, immovable mask. “How long have we got?” Sam asks.

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours. It’s Tuesday.”

“Then we have until tonight.”

“Let us take half an hour to finish fixing you up then we’ll leave okay?”

“Lucifer’s counting on a delay. It’s not practical. I’m not an invalid. We can leave now.”

“So you could just smite us now, then?” Dean interjects.

Castiel glares at him “I don’t want to smite you, Dean. That’s ridiculous.”

“But you could though? If you wanted to?”

“Fine. Do what you have to do. But do it quick.” 

He watches as Sam and Dean fuss with bandages and he tiredly settles into the mattress and let them patch him up as best they can as he concentrates on staying conscious; something that’s proving increasingly hard to do.

He only knows that he’d slipped again into unconsciousness when he feels the pressure of Dean’s hand on his shoulder and Dean’s voice rousing him and he senses the passage of time. Castiel takes only a moment to get his equilibrium and figuring now is as good a time as any starts pushing the blankets away. “Are we ready?”

Sam looks down at him “Will it work? What Lucifer’s planning?”

Castiel’s not sure. “I don’t know. But we have to try to stop him. We can’t take the chance.”

Sam grabs Castiel’s elbow on his good arm and helps him swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Dean, you going to give us a hand here or are you going to sit and pout?”

Castiel leans Dean’s way, asking for his help mutely and Dean reluctantly, grumbling, takes his other arm, high up, away from the painful infected wound “Just so you know – I’m against this.”

Castiel allows himself to be hoisted upright by the brothers, their hands gripping him tighter as he feels himself falling, blackness clouding his vision before his other senses desert him, the sound of Dean’s “I freaking told you so!” echoing through his last conscious thought.

-xxx-

When he wakes they’re in the Impala. He can feel and hear the steady rumble of the engine and Dean’s music playing on an unusually low volume. He’s lying down along the back seat, his joints curled in some awkward places; he feels cold, shivering, but he seems to be covered in nothing more than a t-shirt on top of his usual suit pants and he has cold wet towels against his neck, and wrapped round his wrists, torturously making him colder.

He can hear a moaning, whimpering sound and when he realizes it’s him making it, he stops. He has his eyes closed, it’s too hard to open them and too bright even with them closed but he hears someone shift round in the front seat suddenly and Dean’s voice risen in alarm.

“Cas? Sam, why’s he stopped moaning? Is he okay? … Sam, answer me, damn-it!”

“I’m trying to see, Dean. Shut up a minute.”

“At least when he’s moaning I know he’s alive” Dean’s muttered reply came back, aimed at no-one in particular, and Castiel can imagine Dean’s features arranging themselves into a familiar pattern of irritation.

Castiel feels Sam’s fingers on the pulse in his neck, cold fingers, where he craves warmth. He tries to move away from them, to stop them sucking heat from him, but his body refuses to cooperate and stays frustratingly still.

“Sammy? What the fuck’s going on back there.”

“He’s okay, Dean.” Sam moves his fingers away from Castiel’s neck and a second later the t-shirt is lifted and fingers rest briefly on his side, exploring and checking and although they’re light and barely there, they hurt and he flinches. Sam’s sympathetic tones cut in “It’s okay, Cas, just hang in there”. A hand brushes against his forehead and he shivers under the touch. 

“Sam, is he awake? Can he hear us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Castiel wants to say he’s awake, wants to open his eyes and tell them he’s fine but nothing in his body does what it’s instructed to and he lies there, trying not to move because it hurts too much, trying not to breathe too hard because it hurts too much, trying to ignore the cold because it hurts too much. 

Sam’s still facing him when he speaks, he can feel his breath closing the gap in the car to rest against his skin “What’re we going to do when we get there, Dean?”

“Shit, how should I know? This is freaking Lucifer, dude. Last time we faced up to Lucifer, it didn’t go so well.” 

“Cas will know.”

“Yeah, probably. But he’s not exactly in top form right now.”

“Dean, why do you think Cas is still alive?”

“’Cause he’s a tough dude. What kind of freaking question is that?”

“I meant, why didn’t Lucifer kill him?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe he’s got a soft spot for his little brother? I heard that can happen sometimes.” Dean’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“So… this is a long shot, but what would we have done if Lucifer had killed Cas?”

“Kicked his evil ass! No-one messes with Cas on my watch.” 

“And where would we be, now?”

Dean spoke slowly, realization sinking in “we’d be there already. Hours ago, in fact.”

“So maybe Lucifer left Cas alive to distract us. Maybe he knew you’d… um, we’d stop to look after him and maybe he hoped we’d be too late.”

“Yeah? Well, If I had my way, we’d still be back in that motel with Cas sleeping it off in a bed instead of cramped on the back seat of the car being jiggled around all over the place…are you sure he’s okay back there?”

“He’s fine, Dean. Well, sorta. The point I’m trying to make is that Lucifer might not be expecting us and so we might have a shot at stopping it.”

“So back to your original question. What are we going to do when we get there?”

“Winchester plan A, I guess.”

“Make it up” Dean murmurs, resigned. 

The brother’s fall silent and Castiel lets his mind wander, fighting the fever and trying to heal some of his injuries. He’s making small improvements but he feels so worn out and exhausted he can only concentrate for short periods before stopping to rest again. 

He’s drifting in and out of conscious thought eventually waking in a dream. Even though he hasn’t dreamt before, he’s visited the dreams of others and recognizes the signs. 

He’s standing in a meadow. He’s been there before, a few thousand years ago. It sweeps endlessly in all directions, billowing in a warm summer breeze, wild flowers creating dots of bright color mixing with the green of the grass that leans into the wind. It’s a pleasant memory, though he hadn’t felt much one way or the other at the time. 

In his dream, he’s whole again, uninjured, clear of fever, strong. He’s wearing his white shirt, his dark jacket and his tan trenchcoat. He wraps himself in the warmth of the feeling of familiarity, drawing strength from it to overcome his physical cold and pain and sickness and even though he knows it isn’t real, it’s effective, for a while. 

He’s pleased to see Dean appear from one horizon, walking over the brow of a small rise. Castiel waits, smiling, for Dean to reach him.

The Dean in his dreams doesn’t speak, just wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist and draws him close into a hungry kiss; a kiss Castiel returns instantly, without thought, his tongue darting into the warmth of Dean’s mouth, his arms wrapping around Dean’s back.

“Now that is interesting.” The voice to one side is grating and intrusive, making the last word have too many syllables as he drags it out.

“Lucifer!” Castiel hisses, still holding himself wrapped in the arms around his waist close against the dream Dean’s body, but twisting so his back is against the other man’s chest as if he needed to protect him, even though he’s not really there and he doesn’t.

Lucifer smiles, moving closer “How are you, Castiel? Feeling chipper?” 

It seems to be a rhetorical question so Castiel doesn’t answer but he wonders if, in his dream, he’d be able to beat that smirk right off Lucifer’s face. He reluctantly decides to wait and see if Lucifer has anything to say first or if he’d just come to taunt him. “What do you want?”

Lucifer looks around at the meadow. “Very nice. Pathetic, but pretty. Just like you.” Lucifer slowly circles around him, Castiel turning to keep him in sight and to keep dream Dean out of his reach. 

“Does he know?” Lucifer asks, sounding as if he’s actually interested in Castiel’s answer.

Castiel doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “What do you want?” he repeats with a low, dangerous growl.

“Does he know? I think he does.” When Castiel turns to track Lucifer, another Dean is standing off to one side, this one confused and surprised and muttering “what the fuck?” in some kind of repetitive loop as he stares at Lucifer, Castiel and then intently at the dream Dean, still clinging to Castiel in a proprietary fashion.

Dream Dean disappears, the dream’s magic broken, and Castiel takes a step towards Lucifer; he’s definitely going to punch him. “Why is he here? How long has he been here?”

“Oh, I think he got everything from the point where you stuck your tongue down his throat.”

“Let him go!” he points menacingly at the new Dean, but holding Lucifer’s gaze.

“You’re right. Enough games.” With a small, insignificant twist of his right wrist Castiel falls to his hands and knees, in t-shirt again, shivering and shaking from fever and pain, heart racing, skin sweating and breath gasping. The new Dean, the real Dean, disappears from his dream.

Lucifer looks at him “I wanted you to do one little thing for me and you couldn’t even do that.”

Castiel’s confused , raising his chin to look up as Lucifer crowds his space, standing too close for Castiel to look him in the eye. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to keep them busy so that Sam was nowhere near the ritual. Do you know the risk I’m taking raising the ancient powerful ones?”

“Maybe if you’d told me that’s what I was supposed to do I would have done it.”

“Would you have?”

“No.”

“So now what will you do when I ask you to keep Sam away?”

“Sam controls his own movements.”

“And if I tell you that if you don’t keep Sam away I will kill Dean Winchester? I can see now that would matter to you. And I’d do it properly and forever. This time, this death, there’ll be no coming back.”

“You will kill him anyway.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” 

Castiel doesn’t answer. Lucifer merely shrugs, a small smile still on his features. “The offer is there. If you bring Sam Winchester near the ritual, Dean Winchester dies. If Sam isn’t there …” and then he’s gone.

Castiel whirls round dizzyingly in the meadow but he’s alone. He yells in frustration, cursing at the devil, cursing at dreams, cursing Heaven and Hell.

He snaps out of the dream suddenly awake, his eyes open wide, the lingering sense of real yelling in his throat, his flailing arms being held tight against his sides in a grip that wraps around his chest and his upper arms from behind. The car has stopped, the engine idling, Sam staring at him, frightened, from the driver’s seat.

“Cas? Cas, it’s okay. You’re okay. You were dreaming. It wasn’t real. It was a dream.” Dean’s voice filters through his waking confusion from close by his ear and Castiel realizes it’s Dean’s chest he’s held against and Dean’s arms gripping him, trying to still him. And even though Dean’s whispering, trying to calm him, trying to convince him it’s not real, he doesn’t sound very sure. 

After all, Dean was there.

“Dean.” His voice sounds much too croaky and weak and he focuses on more composure, more solidity, taking deep breaths, focusing on putting the pain and the fear back in their little boxes. “You saw.”

“Yeah... Sam, give us a minute will you?”

Sam looks puzzled but compliant “Uh… sure. We could do with a break anyway. I’ll ring Bobby and let him know what’s happening.” Sam steps out of the car and walks off a little way, his cell phone to his ear.

Castiel tries to sit up and pull away, uncomfortable with what Dean saw in his dream, and understanding for the first time why Dean objects to angels turning up in his.

Dean just shushes him in an alien, gentle way that scares Castiel into wondering if the anger, when it hits, will be so much worse than usual. “Was the dream yours or Lucifer’s?”

Castiel pauses very slightly before responding, reluctantly “mine”, waiting tensely to be thrown out of the car, left in the dusty roadside, to recover or not, to find his own way, to be demoted violently from Cas, Friend to Castiel, Angel and dick again.

Therefore, it comes as some surprise to him when Dean pulls him against his chest a little closer and holds his arms around him a little tighter. He both does and doesn’t want to ask Dean what that means. If it means what he hopes it means. But now isn’t the time or the place. He’ll ask him later. If there is a later.

“What did he want?” Dean’s edgy as he asks, his breath warm and light against Castiel’s cheek. 

“Cas?” Castiel realizes he’s waited too long to respond. 

“He’s playing with us.”

“Did he say anything I need to know about?”

“No.” He hates lying; he’s glad his back is to Dean and Dean can’t see his face.

Castiel tentatively moves, keen to step out of the confines of the car. He’s relieved to find his body doesn’t kick up any immediate, unmanageable protests and Dean’s grip relaxes around him, giving him space to push up and away, a supporting hand resting on his back between his shoulders. 

“Cas, do yourself a favor and take it easy.”

“I just need to get out of the car. I need to stretch.” 

Castiel allows Dean to help him into a sitting position in the car, and then help him from the car, supporting him, but once out of the car, Castiel removes Dean’s hold and walks a little way away.  
It’s agony; every step jarring his sensitive nerves. He still feels fevered enough that he’s dizzy when he moves. The low blood pressure is making him feel faint though it’s better than it was, time having naturally replaced at least some of the fluid in his veins. 

When he stumbles a little, Dean starts toward him, but he puts a hand out to stop him, and Dean steps back uncomfortably. Castiel walks further away towards a stand of trees, with no intent but to test himself. Sam has come back to the car and is standing beside Dean, folding his phone and putting it away and Castiel’s now far enough away that he can’t hear them when they exchange a few words. But he can see them in his periphery and Dean’s watching him the whole time, which he finds both comforting and annoying.

Reaching the stand of trees, he leans against the nearest one, breathing like he’s run a marathon though he’s probably only gone 50 meters. In about 7 hours time, when the ritual will be in full swing, his arm and side will still be injured and painful, his fever will be lessened but still there, breathing will still be a struggle, and he’ll still be weak from blood he hasn’t replaced yet. He’s fairly sure he’ll be able to fly a short distance. He thinks he probably could now but wants to save his strength for when he really needs it. Any plan he formulates will have to compensate for his current limitations. Because Sam and Dean won’t be there to help. Not that they know that yet.

“Cas! We’re leaving. You ready?” Dean’s voice reaches him across the barren roadside. Castiel thinks it’s probably irrelevant if he’s ready or not. He levers himself off the tree and tries to ignore Dean’s face as the muscles settle into his ‘I’m worried as hell, but I’m not going to show it’ expression as Castiel shuffles his way back to the car. 

Castiel knows he has to start laying the groundwork to distract Dean and Sam from where the ritual will be performed, if he’s to keep them away. Dean and Sam are no longer part of this hunt, but they mustn’t know it. “Can I see the map again?”

“Sure,” Sam looks curious but reaches in to pick out the map they are using to guide them, and spread it on the hood.

“Where are the omen overlays?”

Sam reaches in again and pulls out the transparent sheets that had little crosses over them and lays them over the map, lining up marked anchor points on the transparencies with matching ones on the map.

Castiel studies the map until Dean gets impatient “C’mon, Cas. We’ve got to go. We know where we’re going.”

Castiel points to a spot on the map. “Here.”

“Um, no. We’re heading here.” Sam points to another spot about 20 miles east of where Castiel had pointed.

Castiel needs to get them to go anywhere other than the place Sam has pointed out on the map. He points to two other places on the map, then to the one Sam had pointed to. “These are intended to mislead.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced “what makes you think this is the place? I can’t see anything there.”

Castiel had spent his time poring over the map finding somewhere, anywhere, that he can put a plausible lie around. This is the closest he had got. “You see this town has 3 crossroads? Look at the pattern they form. You see these lines here? The ones marking the rights of way? Look at the way they relate to the crossroads. Also these churches here, here and here” he points as he walks Sam through the very flaky logic “they intersect with the lines that cross between here and here. Look at the relationship with the three false locations. You can see this town sits directly in the center and is on the same longitudinal line as the omens. Look how the omens taper towards the town.”

Dean had been watching over their shoulders “Sam, what d’you think?”

Sam shrugs, still not looking persuaded. He looks straight at Castiel, slightly puzzled but simply says “Castiel should know” which makes Castiel feel doubly guilty for the subterfuge, however justified he feels it is.

Dean drives again, Sam riding shotgun and Castiel has the backseat to himself. He props himself into the corner trying to get comfortable so he can concentrate on healing as they head towards his misdirection and the poor town he’d falsely accused of hosting Lucifer’s gate to hell. It’s only just over an hour later that they stop 5 miles short of the town and pull into a motel. It’s a little before 7pm and they have 5 hours left.

-xxx-

Castiel has spent the evening in the motel on one of the two beds meditating and resting. He’s brushed off both brothers attempts to check the state of his injuries and he could swear Dean’s sulking as a result, hovering and watching him while he sits cleaning his guns.

Dean has painted the ward that keeps them hidden and a thin strip of bandage is wrapped around his forearm.

Rather than leave the safety of the room, they’d ordered Pizza delivered. The atmosphere is tense and no-one is saying very much. 

As the time gets closer, Castiel’s desperate to leave, but he has to wait until the brothers do. He knows he probably has plenty of time but his plan’s flaky at best anyway. He’d be more comfortable with extra time. But he waits, impatiently, but outwardly patient.

When the time comes, the Winchesters make ready to go; they turn to Castiel uncertain as to whether he should come with them; whether he’d be a help or a hindrance; whether he’s up to it or not. Sam’s for it. Dean’s against it. Neither bothers to ask Castiel. 

Castiel knows it will look strange if he doesn’t even try to go with them so he stands up as if to decide the argument, making moves to leave with them and both brothers shrug their acceptance. As they reach the door to the motel room, it isn’t too hard for him to feign a stumble and a faint as he doesn’t feel too far from either anyway. The brothers help him back to the bed and the argument is closed. He’s staying.

It’s only he that notices Dean’s hand lingering a little longer than it needs to on Castiel’s arm as he settles Castiel back onto the bed. Dean pauses as if he’s going to say something, but then doesn’t. Just gives a small smile and a light squeeze. Castiel knows Dean’s trying to say goodbye, in case he doesn’t come back. And although he knows Dean will come back, the end result is the same because the chances of Castiel coming back are slim. 

Castiel waits until he hears the car drive away, and 10 minutes after that, just to be sure, then he flies to the spot where Lucifer will perform the ritual.

He materializes right behind a patrolling demon, slicing his throat with his blade before the Demon even has a chance to acknowledge Castiel’s presence, let alone cry out in warning. Castiel steels himself, screwing up his face and coats the sweatshirt he’s carrying, that he’d borrowed from Sam’s bag, in the demon’s blood, before pulling it over his head and putting it on. The smell is over-whelming and he hopes it will mask the smell of angel that could be his giveaway.

That was the easy part. 

He creeps slowly round the perimeter of the mausoleum that is the center of the omen-less circle, and the center of the demon patrols. Why is it so often mausoleums? He starts to wonder if that’s a mandatory requirement or if it is just fanciful till he realizes he isn’t concentrating and he really needs to concentrate. 

After one circuit, he has the lie of the land and his wide circle combined with the stench of the demon’s blood means he’s remained undetected. 

There are at least 100 demons milling round the mausoleum, most relaxed and waiting; a few actively patrolling. Lucifer is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel can’t smell him or sense him, though he isn’t sure he’d be able to with diminished strength and the stink of demon all over him. He expects Lucifer will only show up when it’s time to start, so he surmises he has a little time left to kill and get himself ready.

The mausoleum doors stand open, light coming from inside. Castiel needs to be inside the mausoleum before Lucifer arrives. From what he can tell all the demons are outside. He reaches into the mausoleum with his mind but can’t detect any demons inside. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any, just that he can’t detect them but he can’t afford to dither and he can’t wait any longer. He has to go now. 

He flies, targeting the mausoleum and picking a hidden spot in an alcove to land. The ground is hot. He can feel it through the thin soles of his shoes. He understands now why this specific spot is important, feeling how thin the barrier is between Earth and Hell here. There’s no one in the mausoleum, but also none of the necessities for spell-making, no bowls, cloths, chalices, ingredients, sigils, wards, symbols. In particular, no container with a few pints of angel blood.

Disappointed, but not surprised, after all that would have been too easy, he looks for somewhere better to hide but there’s nowhere, so he settles down to wait. His mind wanders as he attempts to block out the persistent pain of his injuries and to convince himself he’s stronger than he feels and he can do this. Unbelievably, he finds himself drifting in and out of a sleep-like state and has to force himself to focus and concentrate. Still no Lucifer. He drifts again. 

Suddenly he’s there. Lucifer; a few feet away, his back to Castiel. A stone altar has appeared complete with everything a good spell needs already laid out and to one side a large jar, big enough to hold about 4 liters, like some grotesque souvenir from some quasi-religious tourist attraction, shaped like a caricature angel.

Castiel would have snorted in derision if it hadn’t been such an inopportune time to do so. Satan has a sense of humor. Bully for him.

The only thing Castiel isn’t sure of is how long the window is for the spell to work. By his knowledge linking all the requirements of the moon and the satanic events Lucifer referred to he knows the earliest time it can start. That’s it. If the window is too long, what he’s about to try probably won’t work. What he’s about to do sounds simple in principal. Which, he’s fairly sure, means it is guaranteed to fail on some level. 

Castiel prepares to fly. The timing is critical. He’ll have a split second to materialize, grab the jar, dematerialize and get himself far away. 

Lucifer knows he’s there and of course it fails. When Castiel materializes and his hand reaches out for the jar, split second though it is, Lucifer grips his wrist wrenching him into permanence with a searing burn as a binding brand comes down on the back of his hand. He jerks his hand away, but physically bound as he is, unable to fly or command any of his limited grace, Lucifer lets him, smiling. 

Castiel isn’t done though. Foreseeing the possibility of materialization, he is already prepared and takes his advantage, whirling suddenly, knocking the abhorrent angel to the flagged-stone ground, smashing it into pieces and spreading its thick, dark red contents in splashes and pools over the altar, walls and floor.

Lucifer stops smiling, growls, glares then throws back his head and screams; a piercing screech that sends demons running and those that don’t run fast enough, which seems to Castiel to be most of them, dropping where they stand. Even to Castiel’s ears, Lucifer’s true voice is debilitating and crippling and he drops to his knees, his hands covering his ears, his face screwing up in new pain.

Castiel doesn’t notice at first the point at which it stops, his ears still hearing it in echo, rebounding around the inner walls of his skull. He only removes his hands from the side of his face when Lucifer’s fingers grip his hair in a fist and yank him to standing. “I should have killed you when I could.” The voice is loud, angry and uncontrolled. 

“Lucky me.” Castiel wonders if the cockiness he’d learnt from Dean in the face of imminent death is actually such a good thing when Lucifer’s face twists into a mask of evil, showing his true form through his vessel’s thin shield, twisted and ugly.

As suddenly as it appeared, the anger dissipates, and that worries Castiel more. 

“Lucky you,” Lucifer whispers as he circles Castiel, his hand still fisted in Castiel’s hair, making him wince “I have another half hour.”

Castiel had hoped against hope that there’d been a 5 minute window. 2 minutes. 1, preferably. Half an hour is too long. He’d broken and smashed a container full of angel blood only to hand over another. 

Him.

The few demons that had survived Lucifer’s anger have started creeping warily back and Lucifer thrusts Castiel towards a small group of three or four that have gathered tentatively by the door of the mausoleum. They grab at him, all wanting a piece of him until Lucifer holds up his hand to stop them.

“Bleed him. Then he’s all yours to do with as you want.” Lucifer turns his back on Castiel’s struggling form, dismissing him.

All Castiel can think is that he has to keep them occupied for half an hour. 30 minutes. How hard can that be? They rip the sweatshirt and t-shirt from him the better to get at his flesh and the blood held within it. He struggles, kicks, bites, shoves, spits but he doesn’t have a chance. 

The demons all seem to know about the injuries he already has, bandages are ripped away and now the wounds are exposed the demons delight in punching and poking to see him cave in pain, and watch them bleed anew. 

His arms are held wide, crucifix style, by demons on either side as others suck and lick the blood from his reopened wounds. His left wrist is slit, quickly, lengthwise, opening the artery and blood pumps sluggishly out. A bowl is brought across to catch it. Castiel fights against his captors, ignoring his pain and the approaching unconsciousness, forcing himself to focus and stay awake, trying to dislodge the bowl from their hands. As he becomes increasingly weaker, he feels them slit open his right wrist. 

Barely conscious he yells for Lucifer, and Lucifer turns to face him “Go to Hell!” 

“I second that.”

Castiel snaps his head up and round sharply at the sound as Dean’s voice echoes round the mausoleum. 

A demon that had been holding his arm drops to the floor, sparking in his death throes. Castiel drops that arm quickly away from the bowl catching his blood, holding the arm into his side as the demons on the other side struggle to keep him upright now that he’s off-balance.

A gunshot rings out, hitting the hand of the demon holding the bowl that’s full of blood from Castiel’s left arm. The demon’s hand jolts back, bowl included, throwing Castiel’s blood to the ceiling, some splattering on Lucifer, making him grunt in disgust. Castiel hopes Lucifer doesn’t throw another hissy fit. Although the earlier one had reduced the demon numbers considerably, another would kill Sam and Dean. Castiel’s fairly sure Lucifer wouldn’t risk Sam. If he’d been able to he would have crossed his fingers. It seems a safer bet than praying.

The demons on his right give up trying to hold him upright and release him to crumple to the ground in a loose-limbed heap. He feels he should be doing something to help. He lifts his head and raises himself onto his elbows, a pre-cursor to trying to stand, and smiles, grimly satisfied, when he sees Lucifer knock the bowl containing the tiny amount of blood that had come from his right wrist from the demon’s hand that proffers it to him. It is too little.

Dean and Sam are fighting strongly against the demons, but ultimately are outnumbered and are going to lose. But Castiel has more faith than he’s had in a long while that Lucifer won’t let it get to that point, and he’s right. Lucifer looks to the battle, looks to the altar, sees it’s too late. He looks to Castiel and hate flashes brief, but intense, in his eyes. He waves a hand and the demons all stand still, all fighting stops. Sam and Dean, confused, also stop. 

Lucifer takes a step towards Castiel, where he lies sprawling on the ground but still defiant. Dean starts forward but Castiel drags up a hand to hold out to stay him, and Dean stops, still watching, wary, Ruby’s knife ready in his hand, for all the good it would do.

Lucifer looks to Dean, then to Sam, then to Castiel, squatting down on his heels to meet Castiel’s eyes. He holds the stare for a few seconds. Then he’s gone. 

The demons that are left back away tentatively. Like a party in full swing ended unexpectedly and no-one knows what to do now. They disappear into the night with an air of uncertainty leaving Dean, Sam and Castiel alone and slightly unsure whether it’s actually over.

Castiel breaks the silence first, unwillingly and unintentionally, creating a thud as he hits the ground all the adrenalin induced energy leaving his system along with the blood from his still leaking arteries.

“Crap!” Dean’s at his side in an instant, pulling him up against his chest, gripping his wrists and putting pressure on the wounds. Castiel flinches. “Sorry, Cas. Necessary.” 

“How are you here?” his voice is a weak mumble, even to his ears.

“Nothing happening where you sent us. We figured it out pretty quickly. Damnit, Cas! What were you thinking?” 

“Lucifer was going to kill you” stumbled out between increasingly shallow breaths. “Didn’t want him to.”

Dean’s saying something else, but he can’t make sense of it, his head feels heavy and starts to drop, he forces himself to look up into Dean’s face, seeking reassurance that Dean’s not mad at him for lying to them. He sees something unexpected in Dean’s expression that he’s never seen before, Dean not even struggling to cover it up and he wonders at it, briefly.

-xxx-

Lucifer is waiting for him in the meadow. For Castiel, it no longer holds such pleasant memories, unsurprisingly.

“What do you want?” the gravity in Castiel’s voice seems to make the very air shimmer.

Lucifer conjures a deck chair and sits, relaxing, for all the world like he’s there to stay for a while. He looks around. “I like this place, Castiel. I think I might come back. Often.” The last word carries weight and Castiel winces slightly. 

Castiel glares at Lucifer. “What do you want?” 

Lucifer merely looks at him in that enigmatic way of his. “I don’t understand you, Castiel. I thought I did, but I don’t. You are complex in a way that angels and demons aren’t. You are interesting, fascinating. I look forward to the conversations we’ll have.”

Castiel starts to respond, but Lucifer is gone, and the dream disappears.

-xxx-

Castiel wakes in Bobby’s house, in Bobby’s spare room, in Bobby’s spare bed. All said and done, he’s quite surprised to have woken at all. He has no plans to ever sleep again with Lucifer finding it so easy to invade his dreams. 

A soft snoring is the only sound he can hear. He recognizes it as Dean’s and turns his head tentatively towards it, feeling the pull of the old half-healed injuries and the new ones that sting under their layers of bandages. 

Dean’s sitting in the armchair, by the bed, open book in his lap, face peaceful for once. It is such a rare sight Castiel simply lies there and watches for a while, drinking it in, seeing the boy in the man.

As he moves to sit up an unexpected stab of pain in his side catches him unawares and he groans a little. 

Dean wakes then, his green eyes quickly adjusting and focusing on Castiel, all the guilt and experience and things he shouldn’t know about in his 30-odd years coming back in an instant, the boy is gone, but the man who is Castiel’s friend is there and it’s not a loss.

“Hey” is all Dean says, stretching with a bleary smile. He seems relaxed, easy, comfortable; which Castiel finds odd. Castiel himself isn’t any of those things. He has a question he needs answered.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel sounds tired. He is tired. 

Dean’s face creases with a frown of concern “I’ll get you some water. Don’t move.”

Castiel nervously searches for what he saw in Dean’s face in the mausoleum but he can’t see it, so he asks. Or tries to. 

“Dean, I need to ask…”

There’s an edge to Dean’s good humor now that just increases Castiel’s nervousness. “No you don’t. It’s fine.” 

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“I do. It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“But I need to know…”

“We’re not talking about our feelings, okay?”

Castiel understands. He was mistaken in what he thought he saw. “I apologize.”

“Crap. You don’t understand. Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a damned kicked puppy…shit…you want to know how I feel? Okay, this is how I feel.” 

When Dean leans in to kiss Castiel, it’s nothing like Castiel imagined. It’s friendship, and care, and possession, and protection, and passion, and promise. 

“Talking’s over-rated, Cas.”

Castiel couldn’t agree more.

 

-THE END-


End file.
